


o, weep for adonaies

by wraysford



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, no seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 07:28:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1460893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wraysford/pseuds/wraysford
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lewis and Nico and a hotel room after Bahrain '14.</p>
            </blockquote>





	o, weep for adonaies

**Author's Note:**

> for consent tw see notes

It’s late, almost too late, when they make it back to Nico’s hotel room. Lewis hasn’t showered yet, champagne still sticky at the back of his neck, and he rubs at it a little before tugging his shirt off, throwing it aside.

“Come here,” he says, and Nico looks at him tiredly, goes.

 

Nico is unusually subdued as Lewis rocks into him, lying on his back with Lewis' hands gripping the sheets either side of his body. Lewis doesn’t notice at first, still worked up from the adrenaline of the race and the flurry of the podium and the press and the photographs afterwards, activity thrumming through his veins, but now, in the near-silence of Nico’s nondescript hotel room, it’s jarring.

And Nico had kissed him the same as ever, one hand resting on Lewis’ neck, but he’d let Lewis press his tongue into his mouth and back him up against whichever too-soft bed Mercedes are paying for this weekend, almost passively fallen back onto the covers and let Lewis grind down against him. He’d still whimpered quietly when Lewis had first pushed in, a tiny noise in the back of his throat that Lewis would have missed if he wasn’t listening for it, but for now he’s quiet, his barely audible intakes of breath making Lewis’ groans sound vulgar, somehow dirtier.

(Nico’s always been loud like this, with him. Too loud, back when they were teenagers trying frantically to get off in hotel rooms or motorhomes with only thin walls separating them from their parents; Lewis had hastily shoved palms that tasted of petrol and sweat over his mouth to shut him up, or hissed that he sounded like a slut or a girl just to see the way Nico blushed and hid behind his hair.

Now he likes hearing it. Nico lets out these high-pitched little whines and tiny helpless noises, moans, “Oh god, Lewis, _Lewis_ , fuck,” over and over, swears a breathless litany in a half-dozen languages Lewis can’t understand, clutches at him desperately when he's being fucked.

Well. Usually.)

It makes Lewis uncomfortable. He scans over Nico’s face, his closed eyes and slightly open mouth, the blank expression. It’s very nearly the same expression he wore in the press conferences and the interviews earlier, that not-quite-schooled discontent trying to be indifference, like he has to be here rather than wanting to be. And yes, they do this after every race (since Monaco last year and fumbling around in the motorhome with the taste of champagne still on Nico’s lips and that shine in his eyes) but Lewis doesn’t ever want Nico to feel _obliged_.

He pushes away the thought that Nico’s being _selfish_ , acting like this just because he got seven points less to his name than Lewis did.

Lewis slows his hips and then stills. He pauses for a moment, unsure what to say, but eventually he just pushes himself up on his hands and makes to sit back, ask _what the fuck’s wrong, man_ – but Nico opens his eyes, reaching out to close his hand around Lewis’ wrist and tug him back down. “No,” he says, quietly, tentatively. “Please.”

Lewis opens and closes his mouth. “Yeah,” he says, uncertainly, glancing at Nico’s hand where it’s still wrapped around his wrist.

“Please,” says Nico, again, shifting his hips up ever so slightly, and Lewis shakes himself a little before complying.

 

Nico comes first. He clenches tight around Lewis’ cock, arching his back and tipping his head back, moaning low in his throat.

It’s unexpected, out of the blue, and Lewis slows down enough to watch Nico’s face as he comes, the way his mouth opens as he takes a shuddering breath. The muscles in Nico’s stomach are pulled taut where his shirt has ridden up and he spills white across his pale skin and the Mercedes logo. It’s sticky against Lewis’ chest as he leans down to suck at Nico’s exposed neck, scraping his teeth over the mark he leaves.

It’s a few moments before Nico pushes him away, not ungently. He keeps the hand resting on Lewis’ shoulder afterwards, fingers curling around to press at the back of his neck and the damp hair where it’s longer there, and it feels like permission.

Lewis keeps his eyes fixed on the mark on Nico’s neck and fucks him harder.

 

Afterwards, when Lewis has pulled out and tossed the condom aside, easing himself from over Nico to lie down beside him, Nico turns away onto his side, facing the door. He’s still wearing his team shirt, and the Petronas logo on the back bunches up where he’s got his shoulders hunched.

Lewis looks at him and then at the door. Realisation pricks in the back of his mind that he has no idea what time it is, if the city’s waking up or going to sleep, if the F1 circus is doing the same or different. All he knows is that he’s suddenly, irrepressibly tired.

“I’m not staying,” Lewis says, but it sounds like a question and he can see the way Nico’s back tenses for a moment before he shrugs.

“Nicole must be waiting for you,” he says, sullenly, and the words sting.

There’s a beat, and then –“Fuck this,” mutters Lewis, getting up.

His jeans and underwear are at the foot of the bed, draped over the ornate wooden bedpost, and he pulls them on quickly. His watch is on the desk and he shoves it into his pocket without checking it. His shirt is missing where he tossed it aside earlier but he doesn’t have the patience to look for it, so he just finds one of Nico’s Mercedes jackets on an armchair, zips it up to the top.

When he turns around Nico’s sitting up, arms around his knees, watching him.

“It was my race,” Nico says, suddenly, and Lewis can’t help but laugh sharply.

“If it was your race you’d have won it,” he says, and before Nico can interrupt him – “You didn’t used to be such a sore loser, Britney.”

He swallows down _this isn’t your team anymore,_ bites his tongue. He’s gotten better at that: he left the mindgames back at McLaren with Fernando and Ron and then with Jenson. He thought he’d left the drama behind too, but suddenly Toto’s comments from last week don’t seem quite so wide of the mark.

Nico’s looking at him, unimpressed.

“Fuck this,” Lewis mutters, again, and then smiles bitterly. “I’ll see you in China.”

“On the track.”

“On the track,” repeats Lewis, meeting Nico’s eyes, and then he’s opening the door and leaving this behind.

 

**Author's Note:**

> tw: lewis briefly interprets the situation as dubcon
> 
> title is from percy bysshe shelley's _adonaies_


End file.
